


You're 102

by mcshrug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, UM tw for animal guts i guess??, crack n fluff, every fluffy fic needs a nice gory mention of guts n bone that's what i say, happy birthday derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcshrug/pseuds/mcshrug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not my birthday,” says Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're 102

            “Happy birthday!” says Stiles.

            There’s a dead deer on Derek’s porch. Stiles is going to ignore that.

            “I brought you this,” he says, and carefully maneuvers the Tupperware container out from under his elbow to balance on his palm. “It has chocolate icing! A little birdy told me that’s what you like.”

            Derek looks up at him from under his eyebrows, and okay, he’s elbow-deep in the deer, which is a little harder to gloss over. Luckily, Stiles has spent a lifetime pointedly ignoring things he doesn’t like, so he’s had plenty of practice.

            “Also, I put sprinkles on top,” he continues, stepping carefully onto the porch. He’s careful not to step in the slowly spreading pool of blood. “Rainbow, which, well. The little birdy didn’t say anything about, actually, but I thought, who doesn’t like rainbow sprinkles?” He’d tried to find out, he really had, but once he’d started asking about jimmies versus specific colors Cora had started to get that look on her face that meant she was trying really hard to suppress the urge to lunge at him and tear off a chunk of his face with her teeth and only halfway succeeding. “And we were almost out, so there weren’t enough to cover the whole cake. So I made a shape. Look, it’s a wolf!”

            Derek obediently looks, extracting one hand from the bloodied ribcage so that he can lean closer. It makes a sick squelching noise, but hey, Stiles is zen. Sick squelching noise? What sick squelching noise? No sick squelching noise here, that’s for sure.

            “That’s not a wolf,” says Derek, eventually, lisping a little through his fangs, which is endearing in a life-threatening sort of way. His dark hair is sticking up all over the place, and his beard is covered in flecks of- no, Stiles is in his happy place. If he ignores it, it _will_ go away. “That’s a ball with three legs.”

            “There wasn’t enough to make a fourth,” says Stiles, a little sadly. He’d tried. “It’s a three-legged wolf. It’s a metaphor!”

            Derek raises his eyebrows and stands, porch creaking underneath him.

            “’What’s it a metaphor for, Stiles,’ you ask? Well. It’s a metaphor for, uh, life. And how unbalanced it can be sometimes.” Stiles manages a toothy grin. “How about I go inside and cut this and you, uh, wash up?”

            Derek, surprisingly enough, doesn’t argue, just throws Stiles one more faintly disgusted glance- like _Stiles_ is the one with _intestine_ clinging to his elbows, dear god- and disappears inside to leave Stiles alone on the porch, in the dark, with a rotting deer splayed on the wood next to him.

            There are many words to describe Derek Hale. _Hospitable_ is not quite one of them.

 

            “You know it’s not my birthday, right?” says Derek.

            Stiles had been wondering when he’d bring that up. “Did you know you don’t have any plates?”

            Derek looks down to the counter, where Stiles has set a thick of slab of chocolate cake on a paper towel and plopped it down in front of him. “That’s because I’ve never bought any.”

            “Derek, man.” Stiles leans back against the cabinets and tugs his own paper towel towards him, sinking his fingers into the moist cake. “I looked through all your cabinets, and I know it’s your birthday-“

            “It’s not my birthday, Stiles.”

            “-but we really need to talk about this. Like, dude? Seriously? You have a _measuring cup_ and a _jar_ and a frying pan and that’s it, and don’t even get me _started_ on the fridge-“ Stiles looks up past the fist he’s just shoved in his mouth to see Derek just standing there, staring blankly down at the slice of cake in front of him. “Um, Derek? You can start, you know. Birthday boy is supposed to take the first bite anyway.”

            “It’s not my birthday,” says Derek.

            “Oh my god,” says Stiles, “don’t you dare sniff it, no, dude, _no._ ”

            Derek pauses with the slab halfway to his nose. “Why not?”

            “Because I didn’t _poison it!”_ Stiles flails a bit, almost knocks the rest of the cake off the counter, and then carefully takes a few steps back into the center of the kitchen, where it is bare and conveniently appliance-less, to continue his flailing. Derek watches, expressionless. “I didn’t lace it wolfsbane, there’s no mountain ash in the icing- it’s sugar and flour and cocoa, okay, the expensive kind. You should trust me, and also, it’s your birthday, you don’t really have a choice on the whole cake-eating front. Poisoned or not.”

            “I don’t trust you and it’s not my birthday,” says Derek, but he takes a bite. Stiles counts it as victory.

            “You save a piece for me?” says Peter Hale, out of absofucking _lutely_ nowhere, and Stiles bashes the back of his head into the fridge in his attempt to fling himself backwards.

            “Jesus _Christ,”_ he hisses, and tosses half a handful of crumbling cake at Peter, who neatly sidesteps, letting it plop sadly to the tile. He looks totally casual, feet planted easily on the tile like they hadn’t been _not_ planted easily on the tile less than two seconds ago. “Can you _warn a guy?”_

Derek takes another slow bite of cake.

Peter shrugs. “I could,” he says, “but it wouldn’t be fun. What’s this?”

            “Birthday cake,” says Stiles.

            “There are no candles,” points out Peter.

            Stiles rubs a hand over the throbbing back of his skull. “I guess I must have, uh. Forgotten them at home.”

            Derek shoots Stiles a look; Peter smirks like he’s just uncovered a juicy secret. “Forgotten, yes, of course. And may I ask whose birthday this is for?”

            Stiles coughs. “It’s for, uh. Derek.”

            “Today isn’t Derek’s birthday.”

            “Why does everyone keep _telling_ me that?” Stiles turns and slams the knife down into the cake, lopping off a piece with an amount of ferocity that is probably completely uncalled for. Neither Derek nor Peter flinch. Of course they don’t; they’re werewolves and he’s swinging a butter knife around.

            Stiles tugs the piece onto a scrap of Brawny and throws it at Peter, who manages to catch _and_ not get any icing on his fingers, stupid fucking _werewolves._ “Now go. Shoo. Melt into the shadows and lurk and enjoy your goddamned cake.”

            Peter smirks and then, sure enough, melts into the shadows. Stiles cannot verify, but he most likely also lurking and enjoying his goddamned cake.

            Derek is already on his second piece- stupid werewolves and their stupid washboard abs and overactive metabolisms- so Stiles decides not to let the Derek’s creepy uncle ruin his appetite and tucks in to what’s left of his slice in order to catch up.

            They stand there in companionable silence for a few minutes, quietly pulling apart the cake- arguably the longest Stiles has stayed quiet in the company of another person in years- before Stiles says, “I just, you know.” Derek doesn’t know, probably, so he elaborates. “Birthdays should be special, right?”

            “It’s not my birthday,” Derek says.

            “It’s been over a year,” counters Stiles.

            “What?”  
            “It’s been over a year since we, you know.” Trespassed on your property. “Met you.”

            Derek raises one eyebrow. It’s remarkably less intimidating when he has chocolate icing smeared on his top lip. Stiles would really like to lick it off, just lean close and smudge it a bit with his lips and wow, yes, yeah, that got out of hand fast. “What does that have to do with today being my birthday?”

            “We’ve known you for a year and we never celebrated your birthday.” Logic. Stiles can do logic, he’s good at it. Maybe he should tell Derek to wipe his mouth. Or not. “Which means that, somewhere over the past three hundred and sixty five days, we’ve missed your birthday.”

            “Wow,” says Derek. It’s deadpan. There’s still icing on his mouth. “It’s almost like you’ve finally figured out what a _year_ means.”

            Stiles throws a bit of cake at him. It falls short. “No, shut up. So I thought, we forgot his birthday, what a bunch of jerkfaces.”

            “I never told it to you in the first place,” says Derek.

            “I know!”

            “That was on purpose.”

            “That’s besides the point. The _point_ is that we’re celebrating it now and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

            “Hmm,” says Derek.

            “Did someone say cake?” says Isaac.

            Stiles is getting _every single member of this goddamned pack_  a _collar_ as soon as he remembers to make the trip down to Petsmart to buy the Extra Large size, with _bells,_ god _damn_ it. “Human!” he yelps. “Human, no extra senses, prone to panic attacks! A little warning would be nice before you _appear!”_

Isaac ignores him in favor of sidling closer to the cake. In his defense, it _is_ distractingly moist. “Is this a birthday cake? Why is there a birthday cake?”

            “It’s Derek’s birthday,” says Stiles.

            “It’s not my birthday,” says Derek.

            “ _Symbolically,”_ insists Stiles. “Would you like- oh, fine, you’re already cutting one, I guess, with your _claws._ Jesus Christ. This is 2013, there’s a knife _right there-“_

“It’s decent,” says Isaac, through a mouthful of chocolate. “Thanks.” And then he’s gone, disappearing upstairs, presumably to join Peter in his shadowy lurking. It’s a werewolf thing, probably. The Bite is a gift, if gifts include super-senses, good looks, and the propensity to stalk people.

            “It’s so dark in here,” says Stiles, because the sun is setting and the shadows are starting to creep across the floor, and the single bare bulb screwed into the ceiling above the stove really isn’t doing much to soothe the whole haunted-house vibe the house is giving off. “You should probably think about getting, like, lights. You know, when you go plate shopping, for the plates you don’t have. I mean, you clearly have electricity, so what’s with the whole single-bulb thing? I know you guys like to be all dark and broody and stuff but it must be pretty hard for Isaac to do his trig or whatever if he has to use night vision to read the problems-“

            “Stiles,” says Derek, “why are you doing this?”

            The question brings Stiles up short. He flounders for a moment- repeats various parts of the question in varying tones, “why?”, “ _doing?”-_ before settling on, “I haven’t given you your present yet.”

            Derek’s eyes, shadowy in the half-light, narrow. “ _Why are you doing this.”_

“Wow, so many questions tonight, man! A veritable _treasure trove_ of inquiries, eh?” Stiles flops around for a moment before pulling a rectangular package out of the pocket of his sweatshirt and tossing it at Derek. He doesn’t try to catch it- even though he _totally could have,_ stupid goddamned uncollared _werewolves-_ just watches it thump to the ground at his feet, sending a tiny cloud of glitter puffing up around his boots.

            “Stiles,” says Derek.

            “It’s _sparkly wrapping paper,”_ says Stiles, a little unnecessarily.

            “Stiles,” says Derek again. He sounds frustrated. “ _What are you playing at?”_

“I’m not _playing_ at anything,” says Stiles, and shoves his hands into his pockets. His fingers crunch with glitter residue. “I’m giving you a present- alright, okay, _sniff_ it if it makes you feel better, Mr. Trust Issues.”

            Derek looks at him; the glare would have more effect if he hadn’t accidentally smudged glitter onto the tip of his nose when he’d lifted up the package to sniff it, and, alright, okay, he still has _icing_ on his mouth. This is devastating; it’s possible Stiles will never recover, red alert, _red fucking alert._ “It smells like plastic.”

            “See? Totally harmless.”  
            “Charms.”

            “What?”

            “Charms, runes, they can be made out of or drawn on-“

            “Open the _goddamned present.”_

Derek looks at him for a long moment before carefully peeling the paper back, the Scotch tape sticking to his thumb for a moment before he removes it. Stiles watches his blunt human fingers fold back the wrap to reveal a dark green square of plastic nestled in spangled tissue paper.

            “It’s a gift card,” Stiles offers helpfully, when he feels the silence has stretched on for a little too long.

            “I know what a gift card is, Stiles,” says Derek.

            “To, uh, Barnes and Noble,” says Stiles, and when he gets no answer, “that’s a uh, bookstore. And they sell coffee and magazines and stuff too, and-“

            “I know what Barnes and Noble is, Stiles.” Derek turns the gift card over, looks up at him, bemused. “Why did you get me a fifty dollar gift card to Barnes and Noble?”

            “Well, the full fifty bucks wasn’t from me, I’m broke,” says Stiles. “The rest was from the rest of your pack, they all, uh, generously donated.” By that he means he snuck into Scott’s bedroom when Scott was off canoodling with Allison sometime last week and stole twenty bucks from the wad at the back of his sock drawer, and Peter offered him fifteen for a blowjob a couple days ago (he gracefully declined the blowie, but Peter gave him ten anyway), and Isaac is a claw-crazy psycho who would undoubtedly be all too pleased to quite literally rip Stiles a new one if he ever inquired after the possibility of borrowing some funds. The Hale pack, united as one. “Anyway, I- _we_ \- we thought you could use it to, ah, replenish your library.”

            “Replenish my library.”

            “Yes, that’s what I just said, good job. I knew that your, uh, your dad had a really big collection of books, back in the day, and I know it’s located in the, uh, inhabitable portion of this house, so I figured you might want to, you know. Start stocking up again.”

            “Stocking up again.”

            “You’re supposed to be a wolf, not a parrot,” snipes Stiles, pretending his hands aren’t shaking as he turns to slide the plastic cover back on the cake. “You could go for some classics, I don’t know, are you a Hemingway kind of guy? Or some Faulkner, I don’t know, but basically it seems like it might get lonely in this big empty house and I wanted you to have something to read happy birthday.” The last sentence is blurted out in a rush, and Stiles is halfway out of the kitchen when Derek calls his name.

            “Stiles!”

            “Yes,” says Stiles, spinning around and clapping his hands together, “you can keep the cake, and the container, too, god knows you need _something_ to put in those cabinets-“

            “Thank you,” says Derek, and Stiles stops talking because, wow, he’s pretty sure those words were actually _physically painful_ to get out for Derek. “But- why?”

            Stiles pauses, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can I play dumb?”

            Derek’s eyebrows say _no._

            Stiles sighs, leans in, and kisses him.

            It’s a sloppy attempt- lands half on his mouth and half on his _stubble,_ Jesus _wept-_ and it can’t last more than two seconds, but when Stiles draws back his cheeks are burning and his lips taste like chocolate and earth.

            Derek is watching him, mouth slightly parted.

            “So, um,” says Stiles, and touches the corner of his mouth, where he can feel the rasping ghost of Derek’s stubble burn. “That’s why. Just so you- just so you know.” He stumbles a little, smoothes shaky fingers over the legs of his jeans. “I’ll- I’ll be going now.”

            Derek watches him leave, cheekbones glittery and eyes half-closed.

 

            Stiles gets a text the next day. It’s a picture of a shoe.

            _I didn’t mean to send that_ comes in a few seconds later.

            Stiles smiles dopily at the screen. “Fucking _dumbass,”_ he says cheerfully, and continues his essay on To Kill a Mockingbird with significantly more verve than he had a couple minutes ago. If he attempts to fit in as many subtle _knot_ and _hole_ related puns as possible, this assignment will be a lot more fun.

            The second picture comes a few minutes later; it’s a book cover, green meadow and wandering path, _As I Lay Dying_ across the front in cursive. _Thanks_ is the accompanying text.

            Stiles snorts and fits his pen between his teeth to type out a response. _predictable._

The response is anything but. _Your face._

Stiles laughs for two minutes before looking down and stopping abruptly. “Oh my god,” he says. “I have a _boner.”_

“Dude,” says Scott, who’s sprawled out on his bed, a textbook open on his face. “I’m _right here.”_

Stiles pokes at his crotch for a moment before shrugging and tabbing into a new paragraph. He and Derek can discuss this possible kinky new addition to their currently non-existent sex life once Derek gets through Faulkner and also possibly several dozen sessions of therapy.

            “Do you even realize you’re talking out loud?” says Scott, from underneath seven hundred pages of functions.

            Stiles hadn’t, but he’s not really too concerned about it. “You sent me sixty five Facebook messages the day Allison got a bikini wax, dude. I think you can handle hearing about me and Derek’s possible eventual sex life.”

            “Sixty-five is an exaggeration,” says Scott, which it’s not, Stiles _totally_ saved a screenshot, “and also, Allison’s our age. Derek’s, like, eighty. It’s like hearing about you banging my grandpa or something.”

            “You think of Derek as your _grandfather?”_

            Scott backpedals. “No, no, not like my _grandfather,_ just like a general old dude, just, really _old,_ okay, god, do you _still_ have a boner?”

            Stiles elegantly places Harper Lee’s American masterpiece over his crotch. “No judging,” he says, pointing a finger at Scott. “This is a room of no judgment.”

            Stiles’ phone buzzes again. _I can smell your arousal all the way from Barnes and Noble._

Stiles squeals and nearly falls out of his chair, although his freak out is calmed somewhat by the next message: _That was a joke. Calm down._

 _STOP JOKING OVER TEXT I AM UNPREPARED!!!!!!_ sends Stiles back, and climbs back into his seat. Scott is still staring at his textbook, looking apathetic.

            “So,” says Stiles, after a moment, “any questions about the unit circle?”

            “Stop sexting Derek,” says Scott.

            Stiles considers it. “No.”

            Scott sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Which one’s sin and which one’s- the other one?”

            Stiles sighs and abandons his desk chair to join Scott on the bed. “It’s _sine,_ Scott, not _sin,_ how many times do I have to tell you it’s not pronounced like that-“

            Scott grumbles, and, across town, Derek buys an overpriced brownie at the bookstore café and comes very close to smiling at the cashier.

**Author's Note:**

> as always if you want to talk to me on tumblr pop on over to my fic blog mcshrug.tumblr.com!! there are two posts on it so far, it's a total party
> 
> thanks for reading <3


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